Next month, I’m going offline. For about 90 days or so, I won’t have access to email, the web, Facebook, or Twitter, and I won’t be downloading MP3s or eBooks. This website will remain static, as will my circa-1996 Geocities page featuring blurry JPEGs of Billy Corgan and lots of speculation on the inevitable awesomeness of Jackie Brown. This is no joke: The wireless will be disabled on my laptop and my iPhone, so if I happen to find myself wandering the apartment at 3 a.m.—a ritual usually stoked by insomnia and/or nostalgia—I won’t be able to soothe myself by watching blurry footage of adorable napping lemurs in a South Korean zoo. I’ll simply have to pick up a book—maybe Moby Dick or Dune or The Zagat Guide to Drowsy-Primate Footage. But the Internet won’t be an option.
I’m not retreating from the web as some sort of social experiment, nor as a journalistic stunt. I simply want to focus on some other projects, cut down the cultural clutter, and re-train my brain a bit. Ever since the mid-’90s, when I got my first modem, I’ve had a contentious relationship with the Internet: On the one hand, it’s granted me access to all the wonderful crap I could possibly desire, and allowed me to win AOL’s Star Wars trivia live-chat contest for five consecutive weeks (one of the many reasons I didn’t date in high school was because I spent most of my Friday nights in front of a PC, frantically typing “BOSSK!!?!”). On the other hand, the Internet’s slowly made me stupider.
Every hour, I’m inundated with articles, videos, and middling indie-rock albums, all of which I excitedly wade through for a few minutes or so before moving on to the next distraction. As a result, my brain’s learned to treat every new piece of information as ephemeral; it latches onto words and images for a few seconds, then drops them, knowing that they can be looked up again later. I feel as though I’m seeing everything, but learning nothing. This could be due to senility, of course, but I think it’s more likely the result of having spent way too much time refreshing a distended RSS feed and monitoring a glut of .RAR blogs. By pulling back, I’m hoping to revert my crap-consumption habits to the relatively moderate levels they maintained in early ‘90s, when I listened to one or two new albums a week (instead of five a day) and read the newspaper in-depth every morning (instead of half-assedly scanning Google News every quarter-hour).*
This doesn’t mean I plan on becoming a hermit. I’ll still be calling and texting, though I imagine most of my conversations will consist of questions like, “What’s the Internet doing right now? Anything? How ’bout now?” or “Have any cats become famous in the past 24 hours?” I also on plan on begging friends to read me a few barely coherent comments-section posts over speakerphone each night, so that I can peacefully fall asleep. It’ll be lots of fun, until it becomes a complete pain in the ass.
See you in a few months,
Brian
*The only cheats I’m allowing myself are my Kindle newspaper and magazine subscriptions, as those only arrive once a day or week, just like their dead-tree counterparts (plus, I don’t want to add to my recycling chores). I’m also going to keep Netflix going, but I won’t be futzing with the queue in any way, which means the highbrow (and presumably depressive) titles I’ve been putting off for years will finally arrive.
This unfair and unfunny “defense” of Jersey Shore in today’s New York Times was so smarmy, so Times-ingly out of touch, it made me want to find an actual gray lady and bonk her on the noggin. When the writer isn’t taking effortless jabs at Keeping Up With the Kardashians (Such a just and timely target! Might you also have a few spare thoughts on The Two Coreys?), he’s using the show as an excuse to engage in the sort of from-on-high condescension that makes the rest of the country hate the Times.* One especially offensive passage:
The schools, if any, where [the housemates] were educated can now be located and shut down. The teachers who so abysmally failed to impart to them the rudiments of civilized life can be fired. The gyms and style salons that seduced them with the lie that physical appearance is more important than personality can be picketed and boycotted. With vigilance we can ensure that no more of our young people turn out the way these ones did.
I know this was all written in alleged jest, but the writer’s view of what constitutes “civilized life” is offensively narrow, and amounts to nothing more than middlebrow hysteria: Lo! These bronze troglodytes and their wily public-school heathen-brethren are taking over the country, and unless we act soon, young people around the country will be drinking Patron Poppers and listening to bad house music and trying to get laid, when they could be watching Away We Go with the commentary on!
A bit of an exaggeration, I know. But not by much.
But the worst part of the article isn’t its highfalutin’ sneer. It’s the writer’s sheer laziness. Though he promises “five reasons to like “Jersey Shore,” he doesn’t make a half-hearted attempt to understand (or even explain) why the show is so popular; instead, he just ticks off a bunch of condescending “Jersey sucks” jokes. It’s a bad TV criticism coupled with classist social criticism, which is a shame, because there really are five reasons to like Jersey Shore:
1) IT’S AN ACCURATE PORTRAYAL OF TWENTYSOMETHING STUPIDITY
You might remember your first blushes of post-adolescence with fondness, but in truth, this was probably one of the most erratic and bewildering moments of your life, one that yielded the sort of crazy behavior you wouldn’t even dream of enduring now—especially when it comes to relationships. Such behavior is frequently found on Jersey Shore, which is replete with tipsy street-side arguments, painfully botched macking attempts, and the sort of desperate, apathetically executed hook-ups that can only occur right before last call. It’s one of the most spot-on depictions of post-collegial fucking-around on TV, and a reminder of how lucky we are to have survived our twenties.
2) IT CREATES A DECENT APPROXIMATION OF VERISIMILITUDE (OR SOMETHING)
I gave up on The Real World years ago, partly because I felt sorry for the hot tubs, but mostly because the housemates were so blatantly vying for some previous season’s part, whether it be the Enlightened Redneck or The Demure Lesbian or The Moody Rocker. It was all tropes, no personalities, and it prevented me from enjoying the show (by pointing out this obvious flaw, by the way, I realize I’m merely fulfilling one of the oldest tropes of all: The Guy Who Complains About The Real World Without Having Seen It Since 1998).
For some reason, though, I believe in the Jersey Shore cast. I don’t doubt the housemates are playing up the guido stereotypes a bit, but I’m convinced that what happens on screen is more or less an accurate portrayal of what their summer was like. Granted, the presence of camera crews probably increased the number of flings and fisticuffs, but not by a lot. Maybe I’m just being naive, but when I watch Jersey Shore, I don’t feel like I’m watching a bunch of wannabe actors and A&F rejects as they cattily out-zing each other in the hopes of eventually co-hosting Skank Gazebo. I feel like I’m watching real people—or at least whatever approximation of “real people” can still be achieved on a basic-cable reality show.
3) THE SHOW SOMETIMES USES THIS WEIRD DIGITAL EFFECT IN WHICH THE BACKGROUND BECOMES SCRATCHY AND OLD-TIMEY
I don’t get it. Do they think we’ll be duped into thinking this originally aired in 1942?
4) THE CAST IS IMPOSSIBLE TO DISLIKE
Of the zillions of reality-TV stars trotted out before me over the last ten years, I can count only a half-dozen or so I’d actually want to spend time with (this includes Rudy from Survivor, Kevin from the most recent Top Chef, and Flickerstick). But to varying degrees, the Jersey Shore cast members seem like good hangs: Ronnie reminds me of every intimidating high-school jock who becomes your lab partner and eventually lets you borrow his bootleg of Crucified by the FCC; Snooki likely knows all sorts of mixed drinks with suggestive names and too much cranberry juice; The Situation seems to be a good cook. Aside from the misogyny and clip-on bangs, what’s not to like?
5) I’M ODDLY ATTRACTED TO JWOWW
Look, I spent some of my summers in Wildwood. It’s kind of a thing.
* If you need further proof, check out the “lookit all them fatties” sentiment expressed in the Times magazine’s recent Jeff Dunham profile.
I wrote a feature for Wired magazine on the Asylum, a ridiculous (but lucrative) film studio that had a viral hit earlier this year with the accurately titled Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus. Asylum specializes in what are not-always-affectionately referred to as “mockbusters”—cheaply made knock-offs of high-profile, big-studio movies (among its more recent releases: Transmorphers: Fall of Man, Paranormal Entity. and The Terminators). For the story, I went to Wales, so that I could watch a man in a robot costume walk around an old castle. It was great. Anyway, you can read the article here.
1) Fela!
2) Future of the Left, Travels with Myself and Another
3) Paul F. Tompkins’ too-brief Best Week Ever hosting stint
4) Peter Capaldi in In The Loop
5) Fred Melamed in A Serious Man
6) Drake, “Best I Ever Had”
7) Robert Altman: The Oral Biography Yeah Yeah Yeahs, “Zero”
9) Screaming Females, Power Move
10) Super Mario Bros. Wii, which is hard as fuck
11) playhimoffkeyboardcat.com
12) Phoenix, “1901″ b/w “Listzomania”
13) Asterios Polyp
14) David Byrne at Radio City Music Hall
15) Japandroids, “Young Hearts Spark Fire”
16) The-Dream, Love vs. Money
17) Zeitoun
18) Kindle 2
19) The season finale of Friday Night Lights
20) The 30 x 30 episode about the USFL, though ESPN should given it another 30 minutes or so
21) The trailer for Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus
22) The Superchunk EPs
23) Watching Judah Friedlander shout down a heckler at Comix in NYC
24) Miranda Lambert, Revolution
25) The Hall & Oates box set
To be clear: We never said we didn’t have water. Sure, we danced around the topic a bit. When you guys were up here in ‘72, and we were having that farewell brunch, one of you asked, “What’s the local water scene like, anyway? Hoppin’?” Our response was to do little shrugging kind of jig and say, “A glass a whatnow?”, and then deplete enough oxygen from the breakfast nook for you to pass out. Then, while you were sleeping, we faked our own deaths, so that you’d wake up and get so freaked and guilt-ridden that you’d leave. Instead, you dumped us in the trunk of your space-buggy and drove around for two days, arguing and sobbing and listening to that same Dr. John cassette over and over again. Not fun, guys! All he does is “hurm-a-ham-a-hurm-ham” and “bowitty-boo-bow-bon” all night.
Anyhoo, after you finally left, nobody bothered us about water again. We just stayed up here, selling outdated JavaScript manuals to developing nations, and occasionally making moon-pies (”pies,” by the way, is moon-slang for “love”). Everything was cool until last month, when you found out we were holding out on you.
But who can blame us? After all, you guys have been uncool to us the last few years. Major uncool. For starters, we’ve somehow become synonymous with your mildly rebellious rectal displays. And we’ve been vilified by your media, which portrays as a source of menace, werewolves, and overly art-directed Duran Duran videos:
Plus, there was the whole hitting-us-with-a-5,600-MPH-an-hour-satellite ordeal. Seriously. You guys can be such dickards sometimes.
And yet, despite these transgressions, we recognize the need for diplomacy. We don’t want to end up like Pluto (who’s doing fine, by the way, and tries to act nonchalant when asking about you, though the pain is audible and deep). So we propose a trade. In exchange for a one-year supply of moon-water (”water,” by the way, is moon-slang for “pies”), we request the following goods and/or services:
- Two (2) Vlad the Impaler cardboard standees.
- One (1) flame-throwing telescopes.
- A satisfying (yet not too-tidy) storyline resolution to the prematurely canceled 1989 dramedy Hooperman.
- No fat chicks.
Please place these objects in rocket, albeit one that’s NOT solar-powered; we don’t want to give that glowing goofus more work. You’ll get your moon-water once a month, in an anonymously marked box; if you choose to keep it, do nothing, and you’ll be sent a new box each month (You’ll also be sent a bunch of Timbuk 3 cassingles that, frankly, we bought as a prank, but now just can’t justify keeping around). NOTE: For the love of God, do NOT consume, touch, or gaze longingly at the moon-water, as it’s 30% corn syrup and 70% ricin, which is pretty much the same formula as Zima, give or take a few percentage points.
Sorry this is a little late—we’re on moon-time, which is not an actual time difference, just an in-joke about our habitual laziness—but we only now got a lookey-loo at this LCROSS thing, and we had a question: The fuck you guys doing down there?
Really, now—you thought you’d just space-blast a satellite at 5,600 miles per hour toward our bumpy undercarriage, and we wouldn’t even notice?We’re moon-men! We live on the moon. And right now, our moon looks like someone took three scoops out of a tub of Rocky Road, and then swallowed half of it, and then spit-taked it back all into the atmosphere, like some bad Kirstie Alley comedy (we haven’t gotten a transmission from you guys since 1989, so our references may be a little dated). We were already feeling pretty insecure about our appearance—the gray, the cratering, etc.—but now we look terrible. Worse than Pluto (who’s still mad at you, by the way).
And for what? You need water? You guys already have more water than all the known planets combined: You have water in the ocean, and water in vending machines! You have water that’s just for ironing boards; water that tastes like metal;water with seriously ‘tarded names like “B-Relaxed”; and water that’s made by rappers—or, at the very least, bottled and marketed using their likeness—and advertised in oddly homoerotic men’s fitness magazines! What do you need our water for? Not that we definitely have any. But if we did, you could have at least asked.
Oh, great, just got another text from the sun: WHAT HPPND? WANT TO NO THE “HOLE” STORY!! Such a dink.
What’s most hurtful about this, Earthlings, is that we’ve never done anything to you guys. Granted, there’s the stuff with the tides. And the lycanthropes . But other that, we’ve been pretty chill.We rotate. We keep our gravitational pull in check. We didn’t even file copyright claims when Armstrong made that mockumentary about coming up here.
But now, you’ve left us with no choice but to exact revenge. We don’t wanna look weak, like Uranus (total laughing stock—shoulda changed its name years ago, like Beaver College). So, at some time in the near future, we’re gonna do…something. Maybe we’ll make it rain, basalt-style. Or maybe some moon rocks might mysteriously wind up smacking the next shuttle flight (great job you’re doing with those, by the way). Most likely, we will order some pizzas to your house, and not in a fun-sexy way, like the Kirstie Alley film Loverboy. Really, we could use some new movies up here.
In closing: Look out, Earth! We shall forever alter your literal and figurative definitions of darkness! Etc., etc.
Here’s all the info for the “Karaoke Obsessed” show I’ll be doing in Philadelphia next month; you can order tickets here. The show is part of the First Person Festival of Memoir and Documentary Art, and unlike some of the other book-related events I’ve done, you’ll actually be able to do some singing, thanks to DJ Sara Sherr. Anyway, here’s all the who’s/what’s/etc.:
Friday, November 6, 9-11 pm
Painted Bride Art Center, 230 Vine Street, Philadelphia, PA 19106
$12 (First Person Arts members) / $15 (general public); after Oct 25: $15 / $20
Below is write-up for the event, though I can’t guarantee I’ll be making the same half-smirk face during the entire presentation:
I’ll be at the Brooklyn Book Festival’s Main Stage @ 4 p.m. More info here. I encourage you to show up and drown me out with an a cappella rendition of “Sister Christian.”
Yeah Yeah Yeahs, “Zero”
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